waste lands

2

I visited these places between 2000 and 2005,

usually alone, with a camera and notebook.

Dan Dubowitz

Altar, St Peter’s Seminary, Cardross, Scotland.

Gorbals, Scotland 6

Beelitz, Germany 18

Vockerode, Germany 26

Cardross, Scotland 34

Gorton, England 44

Albergo Dei Poveri, Italy 54

San Gimignano, Italy 62

Ancoats, England 72

Orford Ness, England 92

Ellis Island, USA 106

Eastern State Penitentiary, USA 130

Habana Vieja, Cuba 138

Santa Teresa, Cuba 152

Calzada del Cerro, Cuba 164

w a s t e l a n d s

dan dubowitz

dewi lewis publishing

6

The Gorbals, sitting on the opposite side of the River Clyde to Glasgow city

centre, has for centuries served as the arrival point for immigrants to the

city; notably refugees from the Highland clearances, the Irish famines and

the Jewish pogroms and more recently from Asia and Yemen. Overcrowded

and notoriously violent, after the war the area was razed to the ground to

make way for the brave new modernist vision of the Glasgow Corporation

with Basil Spence’s iconic high-rise blocks and the Queen Elizabeth Square

shopping arcade. After only a few years, structural and social problems

emerged and by 2000 the housing had been cleared. All the shops had long

since closed but landlord James Clancey kept his pub open until the very

end. He called last orders then handed the keys to the city’s surveyor. In the

dying light of the day I had time to take these few pictures. The next day the

pub, post office and bookies were all rubble.

Go

rba l

s

8

Last Orders at The Queen’s, The Queen’s pub, Gorbals.

10

Dar tboard, The Queen’s pub, Gorbals.

12

The Ladies’, The Queen’s pub, Gorbals.

14

Post Off ice, Gorbals.

16

Bet Here, bookies, Queen Elizabeth Square, Gorbals.

18

In the late 19th century when tuberculosis ravaged Europe, Berlin built a

modern new town, an entire settlement for its victims of TB. Developments

in medicine meant people were surviving for years with the disease though

few were cured.

Beelitz was far enough outside the city for comfort but still accessible by

train. It was divided into quarters large enough to accommodate an entire

community of TB sufferers. Wards, long and high, were connected by grand,

communal street-like corridors which were built in parallel blocks to funnel

the winds between them. Patients were wheeled daily into these glazed

pavilions-cum-wind tunnels. The aim was to literally drive air through the

patients’ ailing bodies. One section of the town, the largest, was devoted

to children: operating rooms were tiled blue for boys and pink for girls.

In East Germany after the Second World War, Beelitz became a military

camp and hospital for the Russian army. The anguish that these buildings

accommodated and had witnessed was palpable.

Be

eli

tz

20

Two baths, Beelitz.

22

X-ray theatre, Beelitz.

24

Operating theatre for boys, Beelitz.

26

In the East German industrial heartlands brown coal (peat) was open-

mined to power Vockerode, a vast pre-war power station near Dessau.

The landscape was eaten away by giant 20-storey high machines that

slowly crawled and cut into the land at a place called Ferropolis. If a coal

face started to collapse, all the engines could be thrown into reverse and

directed to the caterpillar wheels affording an escape speed of 18 metres

an hour. Each scoop of these monster land rigs was the size of a car and the

peat was transported in a perpetual convoy directly to the 1930s Vockerode

power station. When German reunification came the East German

industrial economy all but collapsed. In the former power station there were

clocks everywhere. Today every clock reads two minutes to three, recording

the precise moment at which the switch was flicked, back in 1994. The open

mine is slowly filling to become a lake and Vockerode is slowly corroding.

Vo

cke

rod

e

28

Valves, Vockerode.

30

Control post, Vockerode.

32

Peat burner, Vockerode.

34

The story goes that one afternoon in the mid 1960s the Roman Catholic

archbishop of Glasgow, over a round of golf, asked an architect if he would

like to build a new seminary outside Glasgow on the ancient 28 acre

country estate of Kilmahew House in Cardross. The architect gave the job

to two ‘young turks’, Andy MacMillan and Isi Metzstein, and they produced

St Peter’s Seminary – now widely recognized as Scotland’s best modernist

building. Following the Vatican II decree that priests should no longer be

trained in the countryside, St Peter’s seminary was abandoned in 1981.

Later it was ‘A’ listed and became Scotland’s first ‘modernist ruin’.

In 2001, in conjunction with the publication of these photographs, the

Cardross Preservation Trust was formed to explore new uses and begin the

search for a new owner. Only a year later a developer tried to get planning

permission to all but demolish the building, and to fill the site with houses.

The building is still there, just. The demolition was blocked, the Diocese of

Glasgow still owns the site and the building, and a new use has yet to be

found for it.

Car

dro

ss

36

Car, Cardross.

38

Refectory, Cardross.

40

Lecture Hall, Cardross.

42

Cell, Cardross.

44

In the 1800s Gorton, then a village outside Manchester, saw a massive influx

of immigrants, mostly from Ireland, to man the rapidly growing train-building

and cotton industries. A group of exiled Franciscan monks came from Douai

to Gorton to re-establish a Catholic community. They appointed a 24 year

old gothic revivalist architect, Edward Pugin son of the better known A W

Pugin, to build them a monastery and church. Ambitious and determined to

catch the eye of the Vatican and win a commission in Rome, Pugin designed

the largest parish church of its time in the UK. Then, as now, it is visible

on the horizon from miles around towering over the surrounding terraced

houses. In 1989 the Franciscan monks held their last mass and sold the

estate to property developers who then went bust, stripped the church of

its sculptures and left the door open.

A community-based group has bought the building and raised the seven

million pounds needed to bring it back into use. The saints from the nave

were discovered at an auction and resided for some years in a container,

awaiting reconciliation with their plinths high up in the nave. A testament

to regeneration by will-power, after eight years of dogged persistence, the

painstaking reconstruction is complete and the building is again open, this

time for secular use and the occasional wedding.

Go

rto

n

46

Vestry, Gor ton.

48

The Fall, Gor ton.

50

Angel, Gor ton.

52

Altar, Gor ton.

54

The ‘Real Albergo dei Poveri’ (Royal Hotel for the Poor) was built by Carlos

III, the Bourbon King of Naples and Sicily, to lock up 8,000 destitute citizens

and clear the streets of Naples. Carlos’s alms house complex was never

completed; the extraordinary panopticon church at its centre – with its five

naves to deliver Mass simultaneously to five segregated populations – was

never finished. Then, as now, the Albergo was out of sync with, and set

apart from, the city. Even today when stepping out from a silent Albergo

room onto a balcony above Naples, the noise, the fumes and the frenetic

activity that surrounds this World Heritage Site comes as a shock.

Built some years before Jeremy Bentham conceived of a panopticon prison,

the church was the only place where Carlos’s inmates could come together.

While this panopticon church allowed the celebrants to see all, it also

reinforced the regime’s and the church’s view of a God that is all seeing and

knowing, and set out to control the inmates’ psyches as well as their bodies.

The five segregated sectors were for boys, girls, men and women – with

a fifth for the public and administrators. Families were split up on arrival at

the alms house. Many would spend their lives in the ‘hotel’ from youth

or even birth. When three of the five wings were complete the Albergo

boasted a 300 metre long façade and 750,000 cubic metres of space making

it, apparently, the second largest public building in Europe to this day. In 1980

an earthquake killed some elderly residents and revealed that, in the rush to

build, many of the arches were not connected to the walls. The painstaking

reconstruction of these arches using tufa stone and traditional techniques

is now underway. Five hundred million euros have been spent on this

restoration, without resolving circulation, services or parking, or first securing

a new use or client.

Alb

erg

o d

ei

Pove

ri

56

Panopticon church, Naples.

58

Archive, Naples.

60

Corridor, Naples.

62

San Gimignano is a Tuscan hilltown, famous for its merchant families who

built unfeasibly tall towers to try to outdo their rival neighbours. The

forefathers of New York skyscrapers, these towers date from medieval

times and draw thousands of tourists every day who far outweigh the

number of actual inhabitants of the town. Hidden away unseen by the

tourists, occupying a fifth of the walled city and still under strict lock and key,

the former convent and then prison is now falling into ruins.

Curiously this prison serves as a strong and essential form of respite and

escape in a town with intensive land-use and a vigorous tourist trade.

Successive mayors have seen the convent as an asset to be capitalised on

and a space that should be freed up for development. The site is a protected

historical structure that is difficult to separate from its past as a prison or

to convert profitably. In this vacuum of no-change is a derelict building in

full use. Each wing has its own director, and in the principal exercise yard,

an appointed ‘il Presidente’, with a rescued bird on his shoulder, ponders his

next move in a game of dominoes between these wing directors that may

have been running for years. I passed an unlocked fridge with a glass door,

full of wine, beer, soft drinks with a converted collection box next to it.

One wing serves the music school for practice rooms – one musician per

cell; another is used by local archaeologists – one dig archived per cell.

The palio rehearse their horse-back jousting in the courtyards. Political

associations also have cells. One cell had a tile outside declaring it to be the

Communist Party headquarters. It was locked, but through the grill could

be seen red leatherette chairs crammed into a room presided over by a

portrait of Che Guevara.

To the local government the convent/prison is a wasteland, as it is not in

profitable use. To the community of San Gimignano it is the one place they

can still be a vibrant community and hang out, get stuff done, walled in

and far enough away from their streets full of strangers rushing through

their town.

San

Gim

ign

ano

64

Corridor, San Gimignano.

66

Cell with Madonna, San Gimignano.

68

Cell door with Che, San Gimignano.

70

Towers from cell, San Gimignano.

72

In the 1700s the eastern border of the city of Manchester was marked

by a river and fields. At the dawn of the Industrial Revolution some eager

industrialists sat down and planned a grid of streets and canals on that land

to accommodate the production of cotton and cloth on a scale that was

hitherto unimaginable. By the end of the 18th century the area, known as

Ancoats, had become the world’s first planned industrial suburb, and it

was in full steam. The mills grew so rapidly that they swallowed up roads.

Walkways and tunnels were built to allow five consecutive blocks of mills to

function as one complex.

By the 1960s the cotton industry had quit Ancoats for more profitable

shores and the area’s deep dark canyons provided a painful testimony to a

lost era. By spring 2003 the process known locally as ‘ditching’ had begun.

A window was knocked out on each floor, a giant skip and crusher worked

away below as a team of workmen flung centuries of accumulated objects

out of the window.

These pictures portray the presence of absence in the space’s last moment

as a mill. They follow the journey of the ditchers and the industrial

archaeologists over the summer of 2003 as walled up rooms, tunnels and

walkways were reopened momentarily. Archaeologists uncovered a coin

from 1799 as well as a child’s shoe walled up in the fabric of the building, a

reminder of ancient traditions of constructing a place known as immuration.

Today Ancoats is rising again as a new suburb and this time it is not to

accommodate dark, noisy, crowded and perilous industry, but contemporary

inner city living. These photographs and the experience of living and working

in Ancoats formed the basis for ‘The Peeps’, a series of 20 or so permanent

peep holes that have subsequently been built into the walls around Ancoats.

An

coat

s

74

Jactin House, Ancoats.

76

Jactin House, Ancoats.

78

Steam press, Royal Mills , Ancoats.

80

Sewing room, with Sophia Loren, Murrays Mills , Ancoats.

82

Time clock , Royal Mills , Ancoats.

84

Cutting and pattern room, Royal Mills , Ancoats.

86

Pattern room, Royal Mills , Ancoats.

88

Cutting room and roof garden with rabbits, Royal Mills , Ancoats.

90

Pattern store, Royal Mills , Ancoats.

92

During the 1950s the British Ministry of Defence built a nuclear research

facility at Orford Ness, a 45 hectare natural pebble spit off the east coast of

England. Laboratories with 15 feet thick concrete walls were constructed to

vibration test, drop test, cook, spin and assemble nuclear weapons. Cobra

Mist, a top secret Cold War eavesdropping programme was established

on ‘the island’ using ‘over the horizon’ backscatter radar to listen in on the

Soviets. Other laboratories were devoted to centrifuge. The original testing

machine was later moved to AWE Aldermaston, where it is still in use. The

structures most shrouded in secrecy were the ‘pagodas’ used for mechanical

and vibration testing. Their massive roofs, piled high with pebbles for extra

mass, are supported on impossibly slender columns. In a nuclear blast it was

planned they would give way and cap the bunker to contain an explosion.

As the Cold War ended the need for Orford Ness diminished. The M.O.D.

decommissioned the site and gave it to the National Trust, but not before

they tested some of their samples and the labs to destruction. The enormous

steel armoured doors were blown off Lab 3, known as ‘the oven’. The control

room is now filled with a strange ash, in which wild hares have built a warren.

The buildings are almost unique, the only known similar construction

anywhere in the world is at the nuclear testing facility in Nevada, USA.

What was actually tested in them will remain a secret for decades to come.

Military architecture has an aesthetic all of its own, it is highly utilitarian yet

there is always something more than mere ‘form following function’.

The bombs these military scientists played with were given names such as

the Blue Danube or Polaris. There is a strong element of fantasy and the

fantastic in the poetics and form of these spaces, not least some expression

of Cold War anxiety about the end of the world. The vibration-testing

chamber has a quasi-religious aesthetic.

The National Trust are experts in the restoration of stately homes and

making them accessible to the public, however they must be at a loss with

Orford. So for now the military complex is left in its raw state and is out

of bounds as a bird sanctuary takes over. Orford Ness could be around for

millennia, an archaeology of the immediate past, that still embodies our fears

of the present. At some point society will feel the need to interpret these

abandoned structures and Orford Ness will come out of hiding and enter

the national psyche.

Orf

ord

Ne

ss

94

Labs 4 and 5, Or ford Ness.

96

Lab 5, vibration testing, Or ford Ness.

98

Lab 3, The Oven, Or ford Ness.

100

Drop testing lab, Or ford Ness.

102

Lab 3, The Oven, with hare warren, Or ford Ness.

104

Pagoda of Lab 3 viewed from Lab 4, Or ford Ness.

106

Ellis Island is a small island beside the Statue of Liberty in Upper New

York Bay. In the late 1900s America needed immigrants for its farms and

production lines. Poverty and hunger in Italy and Ireland and the pogroms

in Russia saw wave after wave of immigrants arrive in the ‘promised land’

through New York. With up to ten thousand new arrivals each day, ships

were forced to queue for days in the bay. So Ellis Island was developed as a

terminal for rich passengers and an immigration processing point and hospital

for poor immigrants. It was extended from a scrap of rock to several acres

by extensive land fill from the excavation of the New York subway.

The building programme was developed following laws paradoxically brutal

and benevolent. If you had 50 dollars or travelled in a cabin your immigration

was processed on the boat and you went straight to the train. Everyone else

was subjected to an interview and a medical. Names were often anglicised

or changed altogether. Immigrants were processed by a doctor in 90

seconds, during which time 30 assessments were made – a white chalk mark

meant a longer examination was needed. Over 300 babies were born in the

hospital, psychiatric patients were treated and autopsies carried out there

led to scientific discoveries. The more ill a patient was the further down the

long corridors of wards he or she was posted. Those with terminal or long

term illnesses like TB were treated with a view of the Statue of Liberty. The

staircase at the end of the processing hall split three ways: the hospital, the

dormitories, or the terminal building to New York.

The buildings fell into disuse, but were revived during the Second World

War for a prisoner of war camp. At the end of the war a wing of these cells

was locked off, and when I visited it still was – few had been there since.

On the walls and door frames ‘Heil Hitler’, ‘Viva Mussolini’, ‘Palermo’ have

been scrawled on now flaking paint. As the hospital had done for its terminal

patients, the POW camp offered its prisoners a unique view of the southern

tip of Manhattan, known as the ‘billion dollar view’. Today the stabilisation of

the hospital wing is under way, and the main hall is an immigration museum,

a drop off point on the boat trip to the Statue of Liberty.

Ell

is I

slan

d

108

Dispensary, hospital wing, Ellis Island.

110

Mor tuary, hospital wing, Ellis Island.

112

Autopsy theatre, hospital wing, Ellis Island.

114

Patient records, SAT-SIMO and SPI-TUR, hospital wing, Ellis Island.

116

Corridor, dormitory wing, Ellis Island.

118

Family bathroom, dormitory wing, Ellis Island.

120

Communal washroom, dormitory wing, Ellis Island.

122

Prisoner of war cell, dormitory wing, Ellis Island.

124

Prisoner of war cell, dormitory wing, Ellis Island.

126

Corridor, hospital wing, Ellis Island.

128

Liber ty view, hospital wing, Ellis Island.

130

The Quakers in Pennsylvania, progressive in their thinking about the reform

and rehabilitation of prison inmates, wanted to establish a new penal code

for North America and in 1787 established the Philadelphia Society for

Alleviating the Miseries of Public Prisons. In 1829 they built an extraordinary

walled city on the outskirts of Philadelphia, within which lies Eastern State

Penitentiary. It is laid out in a panopticon plan, each vast interminably long

corridor setting off from the single guard post, the eye in the middle.

Prisoners spent their sentences in solitary confinement, without seeing

either guards, visitors or other inmates. The aim was to protect inmates’

identities to give them the opportunity of a new start when they left prison,

and to encourage self-reflection which, in theory, was to lead to lasting

repentance and reform. The inmates were not allowed reading material or

to speak, whistle, sing or communicate. Failure to comply was punished by

withdrawing food. Some inmates overcame this by wrapping notes around

small stones and throwing them into the neighbouring yard. Drawing

increasing criticism, the practice of absolute solitary confinement was

abandoned in the 1870s.

Each cell had a tiny private exercise yard which prisoners could use for

an hour each day, and where they could tend a small garden or keep a

pet, a practice which was continued until the prison finally closed in 1971.

The prison also included extensive workshops for trades and everything

it needed to be as self-contained as a city. It even had a theatre and a

synagogue. One governor had his inmates paint his office with classical

frescoes.

The building went 4,500% over budget and then needed extending as

the prison population grew. At times there were up to 5 people to a

one-man cell. Further wings were added, filling in between the spaces of

the panopticon ‘spokes’. A trust has taken over the building. Their work

endeavours to retain the spirit of the place and is largely self-funded by a

hugely popular Halloween trail.

Eas

tern

Sta

te

Pen

ite

nti

ary

132

End of panopticon corridor, Philadelphia.

134

Cell, Philadelphia.

136

Cell, Philadelphia.

138

In Cuba wastelands are so utterly different to anywhere else. Many buildings

are derelict and uninhabitable. They no longer keep the rain, sun or

vegetation out, they are unstable, unserviced and pretty much unusable.

And yet they are in animate and active use. Usually when photographing

derelict buildings there is no one around. In Havana someone would

invariably pull up a chair unsolicited and seat themselves in front of the

camera.

These buildings are falling apart but are not going to waste. Even a derelict

theatre with no roof provides a home on its balcony, an art deco cinema

serves as a car park and an ancient and historically important convent with

no water or electricity accommodates a vibrant community, up to a family

per cell, with more in the cloisters and on the roof.

For some years I had been exploring the ‘presence of absence’, but Cuba

contradicts this ‘absence’ so markedly with its ‘presence’ and offers an

entirely different set of ideas of what wastelands are about.

At the time of these photos Cuba was opening its economy to foreign

investors. Eusebio Leal, the Historiador de la Ciudad de La Habana and

Professor Orestes del Castillo, his city master planner, (among others)

have been piloting a scheme in Old Havana for a block by block approach

to development. It is a considered and patient approach looking to accrue

a transformation, experimenting with various approaches. If a site in a

block has an injection of foreign investment this acts as the catalyst for

rehabilitating the entire block. The priority is to find a way to accommodate

those who currently live there and want to stay. Such an approach is

seemingly outside the realms of an open market economy, and time will tell

if it can be rolled out on a larger scale and retain its attention to detail and

in particular the continuity of culture. If it does it will become one of those

rare templates for rehabilitating a wasteland which succeeds without ripping

out the soul of its subject.

Hab

ana

Vie

ja

140

Apar tment block, Cuba.

142

Santeria Apothecary, apar tment light well, Cuba.

144

Cinema, car park , Cuba.

146

Theatre, dwelling, Cuba.

148

Workshop, Cuba.

150

Entrance hall, Cuba.

152

Convento Santa Teresa de Jesus. This early colonial church and convent

forms the heart of this city block in old Havana. Once this closed walled

community housed one nun per cell, now it is a dense microcosm of a city

within the larger city. Sometimes there is an extended family to one cell.

The cloisters are cut to a slither as each cell extends out to make a low

kitchen and an extra room above. Fresh water is collected in buckets

from the roof – something which appears organised in a more orderly

fashion than the ad-hoc wires and pipes snaking through the compound.

The courtyard, roof and other rooms serve for yet more dwellings. The

variety, contrast and strength of spirit amongst this close-knit community

is extraordinary. The ancient gates in the enormous walls that once served

to lock the nuns in and the world out, seem to have found favour with a

community as a means for self containment.

There is considerable interest in ‘restoring’ this convent, which probably

means rebuilding it to look as it once did, so that it can serve as a hotel.

These people need a better place to live, sanitation wouldn’t go amiss, this

is their opportunity. I don’t envy the challenges faced in trying to relocate

them and build a place that could come close to sustaining the strength of

community that they have achieved here.

San

ta T

ere

sa

154

Cloisters and cour tyard, Karate lesson, Cuba.

156

Cour tyard, Cuba.

158

Cloisters, Cuba.

160

Cell, Cuba.

162

Cell, Cuba.

164

Out from the centre of Havana an axis runs to the coast lined with former

Creole palaces. It followed the route of an aquaduct. In 1861 a covered

walkway was built to join these buildings, to create a single colonnaded

street running seven miles. The palaces and fine houses are largely derelict.

The former grand porcelain-tiled entrances and reception halls have been

taken over by businesses, often doubling as living rooms. One formerly

grand reception room off the colonnade is lined with fish tanks; the family

does a lively trade in tiny minnows sold in plastic bags for under one US

cent each. At the back is the young family’s living room space, part of

which has no roof. The exquisite tiled floor has disintegrated into rubble.

The courtyard has the remnants of rooms off it, all stacked to the ceiling

with green glowing fish-breeding tanks. A few houses up is the home of a

Santeria priest. His family’s living room is also a clinic, the TV doubling up as

a shrine. On another site a palace has collapsed entirely leaving a vast deep

waste ground in front of which a billboard has been erected sporting a lurid

red Che Guevara proclaiming: ‘Revolution is: Sacrifice, Altruism, Solidarity,

Heroism.’

Cal

zad

a d

el

Ce

rro

166

Palacio, Cuba.

168

Santeria priest’s house, Cuba.

170

Santeria priest’s family living room and clinic, Cuba.

172

Aquarium shop and living room, Cuba.

This edition published in the United Kingdom in 2010 by

Dewi Lewis Publishing

8 Broomfield Road, Heaton Moor

Stockport SK4 4ND, England

www.dewilewispublishing.com

ISBN: 978-1-904587-83-5

All rights reserved

© 2010

for the photographs and texts: Dan Dubowitz and

Civic Works Ltd

First published in a limited edition by Civic Works Ltd in 2008

Book Design: Simon Stern and Dan Dubowitz

Layout: Simon Stern

Colour: Pierluigi Zamboni at EBS

Print: EBS, Verona, Italy

Print manager: Alessandra Agostini

Editorial: Tim Abrahams, Jenny Dubowitz, Ben Hall, Penny Lewis,

Robert Slinger, Dan Wrightson.

www.civicworks.net

Collaborators:

Tim Abrahams , Ian Banks, Norma Barbacci, Harry Bolick, Leslie Booth, Leslie Boyd,

Audrey Bradshaw, Irina Brune, Stefan Brzozowski, Andy Burrell, Robert Camlin,

Kelvin Campbell, Mark Canning, Orestes del Castillo, Gabriella Caterina,

Sylvia Caveney, Jonathan Cohen Litant, Liz Davidson, John Deffenbaugh,

Jenny Dubowitz , Vic and Lil Dubowitz, Patrick Duerden, Pickle Ellison,

Ralf Feldmeier, Serafino Di Felice, Lyn Fenton, Andy Firman, Helen France,

Karen De Francis, Pauline Gallacher, Ray Gastil, Len Grant, Elaine Griffiths,

Murray Grigor, Richard Haley, Ben Hall, David Hogg, Tracey Hummer, Barbara Irwin,

Claire Karsenty, Per Kartvedt, Roger Lang, Maria Laurent, Jean Laurie, Eusebio Leal,

Penny Lewis, Alex Linklater, Bill Lounds, Tom Macartney, Stuart MacDonald,

Victor Marin, Eleanor McAllister, Judith R McAlpin, Davy McCready,

Stefania de Medici, Nicola Moorhouse, Diana Naden, Stephen O’Malley,

David Paton, Sherida Paulsen, Nick Putnam, David Ralston, Hunter Reid,

John Robinson, Maggie Rose, Bruce Rosen, Graeme Russell, Zoe Ryan,

Frank Emile Sanchis III, Ilma Scantlebury, Angela MH Schuster, Fred Schwartz,

Leni Schwendinger, Noel Sharkey, Paul Shirley Smith, Robert Slinger, Simon Stern,

Martin Stockley, Ros Stoddard, Fraser Stuart, Alan Ward, Mary Wardle, Richard

Weltman, Lebbeus Woods, Dan Wrightson.

A warm thank you to you all.

Jenny, Zach, Eva and Reuben... this book of “rubbish buildings” is dedicated to you.